What You'll Never Expect When You're Expecting
by IronicNarwhal
Summary: Sherlock has always considered being an Omega a vague hindrance, if that. Far from worrying about unplanned pregnancy, he laughs at those who stress themselves over it. However, karma has a funny way of catching people when they least expect it...
1. Day One: Accidents and Panic

**Notes**: Please let it be known that I have no idea where this is going, and that I wrote it almost entirely on a whim. Also because of the wonderful shenanigans of Team White Coroner during PWD.

Also, if you're not aware of what Omegaverse is, you may want to look it up. I'll offer you this: It's full of male pregnancy and has very unsubtle dub con issues. If either of those things squick you out this may not be the story for you. I tried as hard as I could to take out the dub con vibes, but depending on who you are you may still see it.

**Warnings: **Language, adult situations, vague dubcon vibes, Mpreg (Male pregnancy.)

* * *

**Day One: Accidental Fertilization and Accompanying Panic**

* * *

Birth control for Omegas is still ridiculously touch-and-go, especially considering scientists have been at the plight for the better part of twenty years. Some of the birth control that works for female Omegas does not work for male Omegas, some of them visa versa, and none of them—_absolutely _none _of them—_have higher than an eighty percent success rate. That means every Omega that takes any birth control is stretching the odds each and every time they go into heat. Some birth controls only promise a sixty-forty chance, and others as low as fifty-fifty.

Of course, it comes with the territory. The ridiculous rush of hormones that go through an Omega's body during Heat is hard to find a supplement for, considering that birth control itself is a mix of different hormones, most of which may as well be rendered obsolete when an Omega's pheromones really start flowing. There have even been some birth controls designed for the _Alpha_ to take, because the hormones are a bit more predictable. But they soon found out those had spermicidal qualities and had a tendency to cause long-term effects that may inhibit later fertility. Needless to say, an Alpha's fertility is a big portion of his own ego, and the pills had their patents revoked and were taken off the market almost before they appeared.

Some Omegas mix birth controls. They figure taking two with an eighty percent success rate reduces the odds of pregnancy. Of course, any chemist would tell them otherwise—that, in fact, it's _dangerous_ to mix birth controls and may cause very peculiar Heats. Peculiar heats, of course, that may confuse Omegas and enrage Alphas. No one, even in modern times, pretends that a great number of Alphas are volatile and could cause harm to their Omegas if they detect anything peculiar about their scent. Other than that, it may even _increase_ fertility depending on which ones you're mixing.

Basically, mixing birth controls is a big, huge DO NOT DO that every Omega boy and girl is taught in sex education in school, is on the back of every birth control carton, is flashed all across internet medical websites, and is something any doctor, chemist, pharmacist, psychologist, gynecologist, university professor, mother, father, and librarian will tell you.

Yet people still do it.

Sherlock Holmes: Chemist, detective, and Omega; laughs at them. Every time John comes home and tells him some Omega got themselves in a bad way by mixing birth controls, he has himself a chuckle and shakes his head. John calls him cruel for it, but Sherlock just says fools are meant to be laughed at.

"Not all Alphas are okay with using condoms, you know," John remarks on one such occasion, after telling Sherlock about a woman who had come to the surgery worried about how two Heat Times had come and gone with no sign of a change. She had thought she might be pregnant, but four pregnancy tests had told her otherwise. Finally, after blood tests courtesy of John's surgery, they told the woman that the combination of hormones in the birth controls she'd been mixing had effected her in such a way to block her Heats for several months. John had assured her that her Heats would return, but they may never be the same, so she may want to warn her Alpha.

In response to this—John's statement, that is—Sherlock shakes his head and says, "People like that live in the past."

"Yeah, I know, but they think it's…well, they think it's the Omega's job to take care of stuff like that. Some of them just don't like birth control at all. They think it's…insulting."

"Yes, I'm aware that some Alphas are under the impression that they are God's gift to mankind and that Omegas should realize they exist just to carry their children. But the practice of Omegas sitting at home and setting up shop as breeding machines was left in the last century and I think that's where it should _stay_."

"What I'm saying is, it's not the Omega's fault."

"That they're stupid?" Sherlock lifts the goggles he's been using—it had been a compromise; wear the goggles and you get to install a fume hood—and uses them to push back his hair so he can wipe his brow. The kitchen is rank with a chemical smell that John vaguely recognizes as having hints of ammonia. John hopes it's just the smell and not the actual fumes that are in the kitchen.

"No, that their Alphas are misogynistic gits."

"There are receiving-partner condoms."

"Yeah, but those are more a beta thing." John sighs and shrugs, sitting down. "There's a reason they used to be called female condoms." Female betas are usually just sexed as 'female,' and the same with male betas.

"I don't see why gender matters."

"Because, when an omega is in the middle of heat, do you really think the ones whose Alphas won't wear condoms are going to sit around and wait for them to insert a receiving-partner condom?" He leans back and loosens his tie, unbuttons two of the top buttons, shucks his cardigan. "Same goes for that dissolving spermicide stuff you used that one time."

"Uhg, don't remind me. It wasn't one of my shining moments." It had worked, but it was messy and had to be reinserted after every bowel movement, and after every two bouts of intercourse which, considering an average Heat for Sherlock was five days, numbered at about eighteen reapplications after which time they had to sit around for fifteen minutes and wait for it to take effect. He'd gone through two cartons of the stuff in just under a week and the constant reapplication had caused irritation in a place where it was really rather unfortunate to have irritation.

John shrugs, never having really blamed Sherlock for the incident. It had been two years ago, one of the first Heats they'd careened through together shortly after bonding, and they were still trying different things. Hadn't quite figured out what worked for them. Eventually (And after a pregnancy scare that really redefined _scare_ for Sherlock) they decided condoms, dependable and fool-proof as they were, was the way to go.

After the air in the room becomes a bit less acrid, Sherlock turns off the fume hood, caps all of his chemicals, moves his lab supplies onto the counter designated for them, and puts on the kettle. Sits down next to John and waits for the kettle to boil. He's still in his dressing gown—John wonders if he's showered today, kind of hopes he hasn't—and loose pajama pants, so it's perfectly comfortable for him to pull one knee up to his chest and lean his head upon it. One would think that at the age of thirty-three, Sherlock would have started losing some of his natural flexibility. It doesn't look that way, though.

"Speaking of Heats," Sherlock says, "mine is coming up soon."

"Mmm-hmm." John noticed the gradual increase in pheromones yesterday morning. They've probably been getting higher for about a week now (Sherlock's cycle is roughly forty-eight days, although it's gone as long as sixty and as short as thirty in the past) but it hasn't been noticeable until now. Which means the Heat is probably almost upon them. "What about it?" They go through it every two months, so it's not as though it's something they really need to prepare for. Maybe stock up on groceries. Make sure the condoms are plentiful. Leave a note for Mrs. Hudson—she likes to go stay with her sister when Sherlock's heat happens ("My boys need their privacy.") and appreciates it when they give her warning. She's a beta. She's not as in tune with pheromones as Alphas and Omegas.

"Just thought about it, that's all." That's not all, John rather thinks, because Sherlock has that pinched-up look he gets when he's not saying something—verbal constipation, John calls it when Sherlock isn't listening—but figures it's best not to push the issue. Sherlock will tell him on his terms. Never good to try and force things out of Sherlock.

Three days pass. Sherlock goes into Heat while John's at work. He gets a text between patients that says nothing but IT'S HAPPENING but, unlike Sherlock's first few Heats, it's not as urgent, and he can finish his shift. He drops by Sarah's office on the way out and tells her he's going to need the rest of the week off for Estrus Leave—he gets a week of it every month, which is brilliant because he knows some employers allow as few as three days a month—and she says alright, calls him a lucky bastard, and smirks at him. Sarah's a Beta, but even she knows an ovulating Omega is one of life's greatest pleasures.

On his way out the surgery, John does what he daren't do while still on the clock—checks his phone. The first few were obviously sent when Sherlock was still in the first stages of heat—_Wish you were here, take the rest of the day off,_ then: _No, wait, ignore that one. Sorry._ Then: _Feels like I'm burning, always feels like I'm burning_.

They get a bit racy after that, also a bit incoherent, so John merely texts ON WAY HOME. BE IN BEDROOM. and tells the cab driver as he gets in that he'll get twice the fare he deserves if he gets him to Baker Street within the next twenty minutes. The cabbie smirks into the rearview and says, "Your mate in heat or something?"

"Yeah, he is," John replies, a bit of a growl on the end even though he _knows_ the cabbie is a Beta, that they have to be under British law, and even then his actions are irrational because Sherlock is at home waiting for _him_, not some random cabbie. The cabbie, probably used to it, takes it in his stride and manages to get John to Baker Street in fifteen minutes. John tosses a twenty at him, which is not quite double the fare but the cabbie isn't about to complain.

The scent of estrus hits him the moment he gets the door open, and he immediately closes it behind him lest anyone on the street get any ideas. His possessive, protective, paranoid Alpha instincts are already starting to set in with the smell of an Omega—_his _Omega—in heat. Not wanting to keep Sherlock waiting any longer, he charges up the seventeen steps to 221B, drops his briefcase at the door, and continues through the kitchen, into the bedroom.

There Sherlock lays, curled up on his side. He's shaking and his body has a thin layer of perspiration. John can see the wetness on his thighs; he's positively _leaking_ for John's cock. Immediately, he begins shedding clothes, watching as Sherlock comes out of his stupor and says, "Oh, thank God," and springs out of bed, attaching himself to John.

John's hands go to Sherlock's bottom, that ample bottom, waiting for him. Lifts Sherlock up, encouraging his legs to go round his waist, and growls into Sherlock's neck, "You ready for me? Ready for my big, Alpha cock? You better be."

Sherlock's reply is not so much _words_, but it is verbal; a long, drawn out groan as John carries him to the bed and throws him upon it. Kneels between his spread legs and pulls off his belt, undoes his trousers, and pushes them and his pants to his knees. Foreplay is something that does not exist during Heat.

"Condom, condom!" Sherlock yells with his last shred of sense, gesturing wildly to the bedside table. John growls and lunges for the drawer, retrieving the entire carton and removing one before tossing its brethren to languish at the foot of the bed. As he rolls it on, he says, "One of these days you're not gonna want to use these. You're going to want to have my babies, Sherlock."

"Babies, yes, someday just _get in me_," Sherlock groans, wrapping his legs around John's waist. They're positioned awkwardly on the bed, John still bracing himself against the floor with one foot and Sherlock splayed widthwise along it. They're going to regret this when knotting starts and they're forced to hold their positions for nigh on an hour, but for right now Sherlock doesn't care less, is completely incapable of forethought, just wants relief.

John moves a hand down, pushes two fingers into Sherlock and says, "Fuck, you're wet."

"Please, John. _Please_."

He slots himself between Sherlock's slick thighs, lifts him by the bum, and slides into him all in one thrust. Sherlock cries out, scrapples along the bed and grips the sheets. "Yes, yes John, oh God!"

Already having forgotten the condom, John thrusts savagely, biting at Sherlock's neck and growling, "That feel good, Sherlock? Does my cock feel good? Soon enough I'll knot you. I'll knot you good and proper and fertilize that little egg you've got, the one that's making you feel like this and smell so good. I'll give you a baby, Sherlock, and you'll carry it around. You'll get big and huge and everyone will know who put that baby in you, Sherlock. Everyone will know why. You'll have to fucking _waddle_ from place to place, you'll be so huge."

"Oh god," is all Sherlock says, perhaps with a squealing noise on the end that denotes his first orgasm. Everything ripples, fucking _everything_, and Sherlock contributes a small shot of ejaculate to the growing wet spot on the sheets. When he's lucid again, when the very whiff of Sherlock's smell does not send him into a frenzy, John will change the sheets and perhaps go downstairs and get Sherlock a pudding cup or an orange. For now it's a vague thought at the back of his mind, where the sensible John Watson has taken up residence. For now the manic beast, Alpha John is out in full force.

"Bet you're already pregnant," John tells him. "Bet that baby of ours is already growing. Can you feel it, Sherlock?"

Although Sherlock cannot focus on anything but John's penis pillaging his nether regions, Sherlock cries, "Yes!" to appease him and pulls back his knees to his chest, changing the angle and saying, "Please John, I need your knot, knot me John…!"

In more sensible moments, John might have told Sherlock that he can't orgasm on command, thank you very much, but in the madness of Heat, all he can do is growl and thrust into Sherlock harder, faster, until Sherlock is screaming out another climax and John can feel the knot coming into existence. It takes him three tries to push it past Sherlock's muscles, at which point stars explode behind his eyes and Sherlock's muscles clamp down on him.

Stuck together for the foreseeable future, Sherlock drops his arms and legs and lets his muscles rest and tries to catch his breath. John runs soothing hands over his stomach, his chest, and over both thighs. Tuts, because the dried fluids are tacky to the touch and probably aren't very comfortable to be covered in.

"I," Sherlock says, sounding supremely displeased, "am in the wetspot."

"Well, there's not a lot we can do about that right now," John sighs, although his leg is starting to really bother him. He glances over at the pillows and says, "On second thought, get your heels on the end of the bed. Yeah, good. Push back, slowl-ow, slowly, Sherlock!"

Somehow, they manage to get themselves semi-lengthwise on the bed. Sherlock's head is nestled in the corner between the bed and wall, and John's feet are still hanging off the bed, but it's better than nothing.

"Feel okay?" John murmurs, back to his normal self—for the moment. The worst part has passed, but the mating period will still continue for four or five days, considering Sherlock won't actually be impregnated and the Heat will have to run its course as if Sherlock hadn't mated at all, but it will make things much more bearable and John won't quite reach the level of psychosis he had at the first whiff of Sherlock's estrus scent.

"Mmhm."

"Nice feeling in your tummy?"

"It's a stomach, John." Sherlock nips his ear and shifts, making the appendage still inside of him brush against his over-sensitive prostate. He winces. "You know, someday I'll invent something that reduces knotting time. This is ridiculous."

"Mm. I know."

Sherlock ends up dozing on John's shoulder while John caresses him; shoulders, back, bum, and thighs. The room still smells heavily of sex, and will for at least a week by the time they're done. It's not so bad now, but it will be a few days from now when the smell goes stale. He makes a note to invest in some of those automatic air fresheners.

Finally, at around five o'clock, roughly an hour after John arrived home, he feels the knot go down. Sherlock groans as his own muscles loosen, then pulls away. John watches him, half-lidded, intending to get up and go get some fresh sheets. That plan, however, is completely derailed from his train of thought when he glances down between them and witnesses small amount of white fluid slide down the backs of Sherlock's thighs. He's stock-still as it drips onto the mattress, fervently chanting _this is not happening_ inside his head. Realizes it _must_ be happening when Sherlock moves a hand back and catches some of said fluid on his fingers.

"Shit," he chooses to hiss, and sits up. Pulls off the condom and realizes there's a massive hole on it. Swears again. Sherlock sits up as well, turns around to face him, and takes the condom. Does a bit of swearing of his own.

He sits back, against the headboard, and folds his hands in front of his face. John takes the condom into the bathroom and throws it out, then comes back in with his own head hung and perches himself on the edge of the bed. Places his head in his hands. Sherlock is still over at the headboard, staring straight ahead with his fingers pressed against his pursed lips. Eventually, he says, "You're going to have to go get me an After-Heat pill. My Heat has stopped but I'm still going to reek of it."

"I know," John says. Cautiously, he ventures, "Think you're pregnant?"

"I don't see how I can't be," Sherlock sighs. "Granted, I don't think one can be considered _pregnant _until the blastocyst implants in the wall of the uterus. Right now the sperm won't have even reached the egg. Although every moment we sit here and talk about it, they get closer so _John_, I need that pill."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, of course I'm…" Sherlock trails off, staring at John and narrowing his eyes. He lowers his hands, placing them on the bed and scrunching the bed sheets. Says, "You don't want me to take an After-Heat pill, do you?"

"No! I just want to be sure…you know. That you're…well, you know."

"Are those ridiculous Alpha hormones still scrambling your brain?" Sherlock demands. He moves to the edge of the bed and slips off, standing before John, naked and cross. "You know as well as I do that we can't have children. We agreed. Two years ago we agreed that children was something that would never happen."

"I know, I know. Just…well, if we _were_ going to do it…now would be the time." He sighs, reaches forward and cups Sherlock's hips in either hand. Pulls him forward and leans his forehead against his mate's stomach. "Don't you ever…feel like we could do it? Like we could _be _parents? When we're having sex, don't you ever think that having a baby wouldn't be so bad?" He plants a kiss in Sherlock's pubic hair, inhaling deeply the still very prevalent scent of Heat. Perhaps that's what's making him say these things.

Sherlock's fingers card through John's hair and he says, "Sometimes. But that's during sex. It's an altered mental state; we're programmed to think 'baby now.' This is…I would be an awful parent, John. I know that, you know that…the greater London area knows that. What would people think if I got pregnant? God, they'd probably take the child away just on _principal_."

"Think you'd be a great father," John breathes against Sherlock's navel.

"John…"

Sighing, John stands up and nods. "I know. Really, I know. It's just sometimes I get to thinking and…I don't know." He shrugs and starts heading towards the en-suite. Calls over his shoulder, "Can you strip the bed?"

The 'yeah' he gets in return sounds small and discontent, and John wonders if Sherlock is sulking, angry, or just upset.

He goes to the shop, and the woman at the cash register is obviously an Omega because she stares dazedly at him the entire time she's paying. He must still be releasing the pheromones associated with Heat. She quickly realizes, however, given the product he's buying it's not time to try and chat him up. Instead she says, "This shouldn't be taken with certain types of female Omega contraceptives."

"Not a problem," John replies, and exits the store before she can attempt conversation again.

When he arrives home, Sherlock has deposited himself on the couch, wrapped up in his dressing gown and clean pajamas. Sporting damp hair and a smell not unlike that of clean cotton, John knows he's taken a shower. Hands him the bag from the chemist's and says, "Take one dose now, and take the other twelve hours from now. If you feel nauseas, that's normal, although if you vomit less than two hours after taking the pill you're going to have to take another one."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson, but I can read," Sherlock mutters, examining the back of the package. Instead of snapping back—they're both still high on hormones and adrenalin and Sherlock's probably a bit scared—John drifts into the kitchen and puts on the kettle. Leans against the counter and stares at it until Sherlock comes in, gets himself a glass of water, and proceeds to stare at the two pills in the punch-out packaging. His thumb hovers over one, as though waiting for a command that doesn't want to come.

John presses a hand to his back and says, "It's okay."

Silence wraps around them, uncomfortably tight, as they both stare at the package in Sherlock's hands. The kettle whistles for five seconds before the automatic shutoff silences it, but John makes no move to make use of the freshly boiled water. Finally, Sherlock says, "Do you want children, John?"

He wants to say no—knows that this whole staring contest with a packet of emergency contraception will stop if he just says no. But for some reason he fumbles and mutters, "I…don't know. I mean, I always thought, before I met you, but…It's not as though we _can_…"

"John, I'm asking you a very simple question." He holds up the pills and says, "Do you want me to take these? Keeping in mind that if I don't, we're signing ourselves up for eighteen years of…dripping noses and crying and _state education_ and…"

"Sherlock, really. I'm not in a position to make the decision. It's your body. You do what you think is best, and I'll support your decision either way." He has to admit that something terrifying yet exhilarating happens in his gut when he thinks about it. Allows himself to think about a future containing a pregnancy and a baby, what that will be like.

Still the staring continues. They must stand there for fifteen minutes, staring at the packet, and several times Sherlock's muscles tense as though he's going to make a move. Then he stops, sighs, and ends up not moving after all. After the fourth or fifth time, he mutters, "If we did…it's so sudden. How would we…?"

"Well we've got nine months to think about it," John remarks, and he can't help but think _is this actually happening_? because if Sherlock is at the asking questions stage, he's already gotten himself halfway convinced. It's insane; this morning he never thought he'd be standing here right now, contemplating the possibility of letting a broken condom propel them into parenthood. It's no wonder it's happening like this, though; they've always been rash.

"I'm just afraid," Sherlock says, "that if I do this, I'll regret it."

John stays silent, aware that anything he says right now is going to bias him in one direction or the other, and he doesn't want Sherlock to think he's rooting for either option. He's bent on having no opinion. Is keeping his mind carefully blank to avoid it. Whatever Sherlock decides, he will support the decision.

"I would be a horrible father."

"You wouldn't." He can't help but comment on that. Tries to keep his voice as neutral as possible. Rubs Sherlock's back.

Sherlock sighs, shakes his head, and mutters, "I can't believe I'm doing this," before tossing the pills into the trash. He stares at them for a minute, foot still pressing down on the peddle to keep the lid from closing, then very decisively lets it fall closed and sits down at the kitchen table. Looks up at John and says, "What do we do now?"

Frankly, John doesn't know. It feels like the world has tilted on its axis but there's really nothing they _can _do. He says, "Wait."

It's not a satisfying answer for Sherlock; John didn't expect it to be. But he's completely lacking in any other response. He watches as Sherlock gets up from the table, plants himself on the sofa, and draws his knees up to his chest. John turns back to the kettle, pours out the lukewarm water, and puts on some more. Doesn't come into the living room until he has two cups of tea, and places one in front of Sherlock. Joins him on the sofa and stares ahead at nothing. The telly isn't even on.

"Alright?" John murmurs eventually, settling down his cup and rubbing Sherlock's thigh. Kisses Sherlock's cheek. Wants to tell him he did the right thing, but doesn't know how without implying that the wrong thing would have been to take the pill. So much confliction.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and leans into John, muttering, "We're having a baby."

"Yes." John smiles into Sherlock's mass of curls. "We are."


	2. Day Six: Don't Anger Mrs Hudson

**Day Six: Don't Anger Mrs. Hudson**

* * *

When Mrs. Hudson returns from her sister's on Monday, she brings over the doorstep with her someone much less savory. John hears the twin sets of footfalls before he sees the unexpected visitor, but he has the worst suspicion of who it is. These suspicions are confirmed when he hears the tenor of one Mycroft Holmes echoing from the hallway. He glances into the back bedroom, where Sherlock is sleeping—he's been doing that off and on all day—then back to the door, where he sees Mycroft's foot on the threshold.

"Look who I found on the doorstep like a lost dog," Mrs. Hudson says, presenting Mycroft as though his presence is to be celebrated. John sighs and goes into the kitchen to make tea, leaving the others to stand in the living room and stare at each other. Mrs. Hudson says, "Bad weekend, John?" A pause, then, "Did everything not go…right?" She's a beta. Doesn't exactly know how to talk about heats, and isn't really comfortable with it either.

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Hudson." Waiting for the kettle to boil, he stands by the counter closest to the archway leading to the stairs and the bedroom. Creating a physical barrier between Mycroft and his sleeping brother. The last thing anyone needs right now is a typical Holmes blow-out, especially the delicate conditions forming in Sherlock's womb. Being a doctor makes him all too aware that anything, even stress, could change send things going pear-shaped.

Mycroft's presence is still not welcomed at 221B, at least not by John. Sherlock has been impressively forgiving about the whole thing—going right back to their typical sibling rivalry and seemingly unwilling to acknowledge what his brother's actions had gotten him into.

John has not been nearly so forgiving. One does not tend to be with the person responsible for the death of their mate—temporary or not.

Mrs. Hudson, who's still in her coat, glances between Mycroft and John then says, "Has he done something?" It's no mystery who the 'he' she speaks of refers to.

"Not that I know of," John says, and it's only a small lie. Getting pregnant isn't something he really considers 'something,' though Mrs. Hudson, with her previous century sensibilities, may. He has no illusions that it isn't the reason Mycroft has chosen to darken their doorstep, though. He's fully aware that after the bugging incident with Moriarty's web of criminal masterminds, Mycroft installed several cameras in the common areas of the flat. John made him promise that they would be on only when no one was home, but he's never thought Mycroft held that promise. This only proves it, although the fact that he's only showing up a week after the fact may refer to the tip coming from other sources.

For some reason, the idea that Mycroft has people following them is not any more comforting.

Obviously uncomfortable, Mrs. Hudson excuses herself to go unpack, and promises to be back in half an hour with biscuits and to recount them with the tale of what her ridiculous nephew had gotten himself up to while she was visiting.

"So," John says once she's out of earshot, "how did you find out? The bugs on the walls or the eyes you have following us?" Turns the kettle off and adds, "That's going to stop, by the way. We're grown men, Mycroft. More than capable of navigating our lives by ourselves."

Cool as a cucumber, Mycroft says, "I don't have anyone following you currently."

While _currently_ is not a word he would have liked to have tagged onto the end of that statement, John chooses to address the much more prevalent issue first. Snorts and plants his hands on his hips, like he remembers his mum doing when he was young. Like Mycroft is a petulant child and he's the exasperated adult. "Right, you expect me to believe that. You show up six days after the whole thing and you really expect me to believe you don't know? Thanks for actually giving us a few days, though, instead of just bursting in here hours after the fact."

Come to think of it, he may have done that out of self-preservation rather than any sort of sympathy or propriety. In the state he'd been in—scared/confused/happy—Sherlock may have tossed his brother right back out on the street via the window. That, or he'd known Sherlock and John would not let him in, and had waited until Mrs. Hudson's return for that reason.

Mycroft isn't going to give up so easily, it seems. He scrunches his face into a good imitation of _genuinely puzzled _and sits himself in Sherlock's usual chair. Says, "I don't know what you're talking about. Six days since what?"

"That's just obnoxious," John snaps, keeping his feet firmly planted in the kitchen even though Mycroft is not-so-subtly swinging his brolly in the direction of the other chair. John entertains himself with fantasies of dropping the thing off the roof. Of Canary Warf, that is.

"Doctor Watson, I do not know what you're talking about." Mycroft looks angry now, like he's the one who's been wronged, and a niggling starts at the back of John's head, speculating that perhaps Mycroft doesn't know. That niggling grows louder when Mycroft goes on to say, "I came here to speak to my brother about presenting himself at our mother's birthday party in a month—nothing more, nothing less. Whatever you think I know, I do not."

Weirdly enough, John is starting to believe him. Mycroft is a master manipulator, it's very true, but rarely ever does he outright lie, and never so passionately. It leads John to believe he's made a big mistake, and he cautiously allows himself to say, "You honestly have no idea?" Because even if Mycroft hasn't had someone report to him, he's a Holmes; shouldn't he be able to tell what's happened by just taking a glance about the room?

"I'm afraid not." It's said with the implication that if John does not start explaining, he may find _himself_ being dropped off Canary Warf.

"Do you know the date?"

Looking increasingly irritated, Mycroft says, "I don't know how that's relevant."

"Yeah, but do you know it?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes—an oddly petulant look on him—and says, "Monday, November twelfth. 2013, if you must know." He sits there haughtily for a moment, his resemblance to Sherlock almost uncanny, before his face drops into an odd expression which, if he had to put a name to it, John would call lost. Says, "Where is my brother?"

Nodding, John says "Now you're starting to get it. He's sleeping."

"He never sleeps. Much less in the middle of the day."

John raises his eyebrows. Says, "I know," very pointedly.

"What happened?"

He's been expecting for Mycroft to get it by himself, to realize that the flat doesn't smell like heat and the fact that there is a new scent—Sherlock's changed scent—wafting about. But he forgets that Mycroft is a beta—it's easy, to be honest, because he so successfully broadcasts _Alpha_. All the mannerisms are there, and he dabs the scent on his wrists and neck like cologne. John has always wondered why Mycroft needed to cover up being a beta, of all things—they're by far the most common gender and both Alphas and Omegas find their presence tolerable—but he supposes being thought to have the typical bullheadedness of an Alpha _could_ help a political career.

It's going to be awkward though, explaining how he got Sherlock pregnant to his _brother_.

"Er," he crosses his arms, fidgets, hems and haws and eventually says, "The condom broke."

Far from any cliché expression of surprise, Mycroft's eyebrows narrow and he says, "And he wasn't on any kind of birth control?"

"He thinks they're…stupid."

"He took no extra precautions? None whatsoever?" Mycroft shakes his head, rolls his eyes to the ceiling as if it's him that's so put-upon in this equation. "How idiotic."

"Well you've got to remember that most Omega birth controls are less than seventy percent effective." As is his wont to do, John becomes immediately defensive when faced with Mycroft's easy belittlement. "And the stuff that's actually higher than that is ridiculously potent stuff—as in, it could mess an Omega's hormones up for a long time if they don't know what they're doing."

"My brother is a chemist, as you well know. He should know what he's doing."

"Yeah, and I think he's not taking birth control _because _he knows what he's doing, rather than despite."

Undoubtedly Mycroft had a retort, which he would have expounded on if Sherlock himself didn't sway into the kitchen at that moment, point at Mycroft, and say, "You. Out of my house. Now."

The display doesn't amuse Mycroft in the slightest. He sighs and takes a passing glance at the heavens once more before muttering, "Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?"

"Nothing yet, but I'm about to commit fratricide." Sherlock sits down across from his brother, in the chair that John usually occupies. Glances at John and says, "Are you making tea? Make tea," before turning back to his brother. Thus they engage in one of their infamous staring contests, Mycroft tapping his umbrella against the floor and Sherlock's foot jiggling uncontrollably where it dangles next to his calf.

It's Mycroft who finally breaks the silence, nearly ten minutes later when the water for the tea has boiled and John has left three bags to steep in mugs. He heaves a great sigh and says, "Well I suppose there's nothing to do, now that you've gotten yourself in this state. You're sure you're pregnant, yes?"

"There's only a distant possibility that I'm not, considering the change in scent, my _incredibly_ recent lethargy, and the fact that John was knotted within me for well over half an hour before we discovered the broken condom." John winces, but neither Holmes brother looks phased and, at this point, John has stopped being surprised at their general lack of perception when it comes to social taboos. He knows Sherlock just generally does not understand them, but he has a feeling Mycroft knows them very well and chooses to ignore them. Either way, it's very Holmesian.

"You know Mummy will want confirmation. As will I."

"_You_ can take a long walk off a short pier, Mycroft. As for Mummy, she'll have to wait a few weeks. I trust even you realize that pregnancy isn't immediately detectible, even in Omegas?"

There is more staring, and John carries the mugs into the living room. Sets one down in front of Mycroft, hands another to Sherlock, and perches himself on the arm of the chair Sherlock is sitting in. He could sit on the couch, but if the confrontation becomes physical he might not be able to intervene before one or the other causes damage. In nearly four years, the brothers have only resorted to physical violence once, and to be honest it was warranted on Mycroft's part, because at that point in time—right after Sherlock made it known that he was still alive—John had wanted to clobber Sherlock as well.

Hopefully this won't dissolve into fisticuffs. John would hate to have to break his hand on Mycroft's nose, which he would have to do if the elder Holmes even thought about jeopardizing the health of his unborn child.

Then Mycroft says something—something confusing which, given his expression, he knows he shouldn't speak about. He says, "Honestly, Sherlock. The fact that you've now gotten yourself into the same situation twice is pitiful."

"What?" John asks sharply, unable to stop himself.

"Sherlock, you've never told your mate about what happened in 1996?"

John looks down at Sherlock. He looks absolutely furious, jaw clenched and face turning red. Says, "It didn't seem imperative. It was a long time ago."

"Not so very long."

"Let me reiterate: It's _irrelevant_ to my current circumstance. The situation is entirely different, so _shut_ your buggering _face,_ Mycroft." It really looks as though Sherlock may leap across the space between and strangle his brother. Ordinarily, this would be the point at which John would make Mycroft leave. Now, however, he's bent on figuring out what they're talking about.

"Okay. One of you. Explain."

Sherlock stares at John, suddenly apprehensive, and Mycroft says, "When Sherlock was sixteen he found himself pregnant by a young man named Victor Trevor, quite in a similar manner."

"Birth control for Omegas was in its infancy back then," Sherlock snaps, "and father wouldn't have pulled himself out of denial of my gender long enough to sign for me to obtain some, even _had_ it been readily available at the time."

"Wait, wait." As much as he agrees with the statement, and can fully understand Sherlock's reluctance to reveal the information, he still feels he has a right to it now that it_ has_ been mentioned, and he'd like to have some of his questions answered before Sherlock and Mycroft begin tearing into each other again. He says, "So you had a baby when you were sixteen?"

"No, I became _pregnant_ when I was sixteen."

"Well yeah, but that usually leads to babies." He thinks for a minute, then adds, "Unless you had an abortion?"

"Father would have liked that, but no. I…" He sighs. Rubs the area between his eyes. "I miscarried at three months. I wasn't mature enough, my body wasn't ready to handle it. It was my first heat, and…I didn't know how to deal with it. I didn't take care of myself." He sighs and slides down in his chair. He's upset, probably as much about Mycroft bringing it up as John making him explain. If he's never mentioned it, it's surely something he never wanted to talk about in the first place. John is caught between sympathy and annoyance.

There is silence. John stares at Sherlock, Sherlock and Mycroft stare at each other. Both Holmeses have impassive faces; it's incredibly hard to tell what they're thinking, although Sherlock is slightly easier than Mycroft. All John can detect from Sherlock is an urge to have his brother gone _now_.

So he stands up, picks up Mycroft's umbrella (Which he has set beside himself since coming in) and holds it out. Says, "I think it would be best if you left, Mycroft."

Mycroft looks as though he wants to protest, but from behind John, Sherlock growls out, "_Please_, Mycroft. Go." His teeth are clenched, his hands are bunched into fists on his thighs, and his face is turning red. John doesn't think he's ever heard Sherlock plead for his brother to do anything—granted, it hadn't been a particularly _nice_ plea, but a plea all the same, and just the use of the word 'please' has John (And Mycroft, for that matter) on high alert.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, looking concerned and perhaps—although it's hard to believe—a bit regretful. He knows his manipulation has gone too far. "I didn't realize it was such a sore—"

"Mycroft!" John doesn't think he's ever heard Sherlock reach such a volume without build-up. It's like a sudden explosion of noise, a motor going from zero to sixty in one second flat. It actually makes him jump—and army doctors are not known for their skittishness. Sherlock continues, "For once in your miserable life, listen to someone when they ask you to do something! Get _out_ of my flat!"

Evidently, Mycroft decides that he best thing to do at that very moment is to get the hell out of dodge. He grabs his umbrella from John (His arm has slackened and the tip is now digging into Mycroft's thigh, but neither of them notice in light of Sherlock's outburst) and stands up. Doesn't even do his usual pompous suit-straightening and dust-ridding. Simply heads towards the front door, with a pause next to Sherlock's chair. He hesitates, extremely wary of Sherlock when he's in such a state (and rightly so) before saying, "If you need anything, you know where I am." He catches John in his gaze too.

"Leave," Sherlock grunts, loudly but not nearly so impressively as before.

Mycroft flees, closing the door behind him. Sherlock does not move, speak, or breathe until he hears the downstairs door close, at which point he gets up, walks to the couch, and plants himself on it, face-down, splayed.

"Sherlock," John says.

"Leave me alone."

John sighs. It's going to be one of _those_ days. It's not altogether unwarranted, though. Instead of arguing, John merely says, "Sherlock, you shouldn't lay on your stomach, love."

"My uterus is still between my hipbones. I'm perfectly fine."

"Yeah, but it's better to break bad habits while you still can." When Sherlock shows no sign of moving, John walks over, grabs Sherlock's hip, and tries to tilt him into his side, facing the back of the couch. Sherlock's reaction is violent, flipping over all at once and slapping John's hand away before bringing a knee up, planting his foot on John's stomach, and shoving him away. Rolls back over onto his stomach, after giving John an acidic glare.

John, who just barely managed to stop himself falling onto the coffee table, balls his fists at his side and, ignoring the pain in his abdomen, growls, "Fine. Fucking fine. Do what the fuck ever you want, I don't _bloody care_! I have just…I can't _bring_ myself to, anymore!" With that, he stomps towards the door, barely pausing at the bottom of the stairs to grab his coat off the hook.

The moment he's out the door, he wants to go right back inside. Whether it's the sudden cold hitting him and pulling him back to his senses, or what he's just said to the carrier of his child has just set in, he doesn't know. Perhaps it's both simultaneously. Either way, he feels like an immense twit.

But there's no going back now. He won't be welcome. Sherlock has undoubtedly declared Martial Law and won't let anyone into or out of the flat for several hours at least.

So much for keeping stress levels down.

* * *

Three hours, one pint, and six laps around the block later, John's phone vibrates in his pocket. He's hoping it's Sherlock, texting him to say he can come home. Instead it's a call from Mrs. Hudson who, when John answers the phone, shrieks, "John Hamish Watson!" in such a way that he has to check to make sure it's not his mother and he's misread the caller ID.

"Um…"

"You better get your _butt_ back to this flat, young man, or so help me I will come track you down _myself_ do you understand me?" It's astounding how such a gentle, soft-spoken woman can sound so threatening when the necessity arises. He's only ever gotten glimpses of her potential—the night Sherlock was arrested right in the living room of 221B, for instance—but now that the full package is being turned on him, it's rather terrifying.

"Mrs. H, I really can't…"

"Do you _understand _me, Doctor Watson?"

There's really no arguing with that tone. Something in John wants to stand at attention, salute, and march off to do as he's told. Instead he nods, although he knows the woman on the other end of the line cannot see him, and says, "Yes, alright. Right away, I will. Yes."

"Good." With that, the line goes dead.

It's only half a block to Baker Street from where he is, but John takes it at a run. If Mrs. Hudson is calling in a tizzy, things must have gotten extremely bad at an alarming rate. He's imagining all sorts of scenarios, all involving needles and syringes and Sherlock passed out on the living room floor. His mind comes up with a dozen worst case scenarios, and he's gotten himself into a full panic by the time he crosses the threshold to 221 Baker Street.

He charges up the steps, not bothering to shuck his coat or even take off his gloves.

Finds…well, not what he was expecting.

Sherlock is upright, sitting on the sofa. At the very least John had expected him to be horizontal, still on his stomach in his petty act of rebellion if nothing else. He doesn't look up as John enters, merely continues staring at something apparently fascinating on his computer.

Mrs. Hudson is in the kitchen, arms crossed, tapping her foot on the linoleum. When John comes into her sights, she points at the cushion next to Sherlock and says, "Sit down."

Deciding it would be wise not to question her, John drops himself onto the sofa. Sherlock, though sitting straight up, is somehow managing to take up an entire two-thirds, and so John hugs the opposite arm and tries not to touch him. In the state he's in—probably in—John isn't willing to risk it and end up pissing Sherlock off even more.

"Honestly," Mrs. Hudson hisses, coming to stand before them, the coffee table separating them. Her hands are on her hips, and she's somehow an imposing figure in her purple frock and her baby pink kitten heels. "I can't believe I'm having to do this. You two are grown men. _Grown men_! And yet I have this one throwing tantrums," here, she gestures to Sherlock, who has the decency to slump his shoulders and lower the lid of the laptop, "And this one slamming out the door like some…teenager! Honestly, I'd have expected more from you boys."

"Mrs. Hudson, with all due respect, the arguments John and I have are _our_ arguments," Sherlock says, and he really does try to say it respectfully. It doesn't necessarily means it comes out that way, but John can tell he's trying.

Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, is having none of it. Something has angered her, and she is not going to let it go. "They are when you're having them under my roof, you better believe it! You be quiet, Sherlock Holmes! When I tell you that you can speak, you'll be allowed to speak, and not a moment before. Do you understand?"

Meekly and perhaps slightly grudgingly, Sherlock nods.

Taking a deep breath in an effort to calm herself, Mrs. Hudson continues, "You two need to treat each other better. I'm tired of the arguments and the slamming doors at all hours and the stomping about and the screaming. Oh my _goodness_, the screaming. Someone would think you two have no respect for each other at all." She looks to Sherlock and continues, "And speaking of respect; you, young man, need to show that brother of yours some. I'm aware that he can be controlling and a tad annoying, but he's just trying to look out for you. He cares about you, Sherlock, and you walk all over him."

"Mycroft walks over anyone he wants," Sherlock snaps, giving to attempt to polite this time. "I see no reason why he shouldn't be treated to his own medicine."

"Because aside from your mother, you are the only family that man has got!" Mrs. Hudson replies. Sherlock looks a bit surprised. Frankly, Mrs. Hudson does too, but she's quick to cover it as she continues, "That's right, Sherlock Holmes. I pay attention to your conversations. That man hasn't a wife, or children, or anyone but that assistant of his and frankly, I don't think there's anyone at home in that head of hers sometimes."

John risks a look at Sherlock, just to make sure he's hearing what John is hearing. From his wide eyes, John surmises that yes, they heard the exact same thing come out of their landlady's mouth a moment ago.

"I'm not saying," Mrs. Hudson says, sagging a bit as some of her rage leaves her, "That you have to change overnight. But you two need to be nicer to each other. Especially now that, well, you've got one on the way."

Neither Sherlock or John can stop their mouths from dropping wide open. Sherlock tries to say something, fails, and John manages, "How…did you…how long…?"

Mrs. Hudson rolls her eyes. "Honestly, you two must think I'm a right flake if you don't think I noticed."

"But…Mycroft didn't even." It's Sherlock who speaks, somewhat unintelligibly. John nods stupidly along with these words.

"Mycroft is your brother, dear. He's naturally less perceptive to changes in your scent. Doesn't matter how observant he is, he's not going to be able to smell something his body tells him not to." Mrs. Hudson comes around the coffee table and pats Sherlock's head. "My senses aren't what they used to be—I used to be able to smell an Omega from fifty yards away; it was how I knew whether one of the girls I was staying with on the countryside had been in my things or not. Sticky fingers, you see. Always have to watch those ones. Never know what they'll get into. One time my mother sent me some Belgian chocolates, and of course we had a _war_ on so they were terribly expensive—" Sherlock grunts and looks up at her through his lashes. She sighs, pushes back his hair, and continues, "My point being, I can still tell whether or not an Omega is pregnant and, frankly dear, you're not doing yourself any favors by not showering for days on end."

They're quiet for a long time, all three of them. Mrs. Hudson stands up and pours a cup of tea for John, then arrives back and budges Sherlock over with a few light shoves. Sherlock pulls in his limbs until there's room for her on the sofa, and consequently ends up pressing his body against John's, whosemuscle memory makes him reach an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock is stiff for a moment, but then leans back into John's body and nestles his head under John's chin.

John kisses the top of Sherlock's head.

Mrs. Hudson stares at him, then meets John's eyes over his head. They're soft and brown, showing all the concern of a mother for her dear child. She says, "I never had children of my own, and I'm not close with my nieces and nephews. You two are all I have. I wish you'd be better to each other."

All John can do is shamefully drop his eyes and press another kiss to Sherlock's hair.

She and John watch an episode or so or Doctor Who and have a bit of conversation over their tea and it's almost like normal, except for the oppressive silence of Sherlock between them. They keep glancing at him all through the episodes, but neither mentions their concerns. Soon enough, it becomes nine o'clock and Mrs. Hudson retires to her own flat. Sherlock has now been quiet, head pressed below John's chin, through the better part of an hour. He's so quiet, in fact, that John thinks he's fallen asleep and, when Mrs. Hudson leaves, shakes him and says, "Wake up, love."

"I'm awake," Sherlock mutters into John's clavicle, too alert to have been just pulled from sleep. "I'm thinking."

"Oh. Well…can you stop thinking long enough for me to get up and use the toilet?"

Grudgingly, Sherlock shifts his body away and slumps onto the opposite arm of the sofa. John gets up, hesitantly squeezes Sherlock's shoulder, and walks out of the living room.

While he's washing his hands. John hears the telly switch off and Sherlock's footfalls into the bedroom, and when John exits through the en-suit door, it's to find Sherlock laying on their bed. On his side, at least.

"Tired again?" John says. Unsure whether to get in bed or leave and come back once Sherlock's fallen asleep.

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise that could mean anything from 'Yes' to 'Leave.' John hovers in the doorway, waiting for some sort of elaboration or confirmation, and he gets it in the form of Sherlock reaching behind himself and patting the bed next to him. Unspeakably relieved, John hurries towards the bed and lays next to his mate. The bedsheets are cool, and so is Sherlock, and he wraps his arms around him.

"I'm scared," Sherlock says without preamble.

"That's not unusual," John murmurs against his neck. "I know you're Sherlock Holmes, but everyone gets scared sometimes. It's only human."

"Have you ever wondered why there's such an age gap between Mycroft and I?"

He's never thought on it, but he supposes the difference is a bit odd. Women usually don't space their children out so far, and usually not in such an odd number of years. More often than not, when a woman hits the five year mark and hasn't had another child, she's not going to have anymore. But instead of informing him of this, John gives the less clinical answer of, "Um…not really."

Sherlock sighs and most likely rolls his eyes, but John can feel him give a quiet laugh. "Okay, fine."

"No, really. What were you going to say?"

There's a moment of silence, and John almost thinks Sherlock isn't going to reply—or else, actually _has_ fallen asleep—before he says, "My mother had three miscarriages and one stillbirth between my birth and Mycroft's. In fact, Mycroft was born premature and while pregnant with me, my mother acquired preeclampsia and had to have a cesarean section at only seven months. I wasn't breathing when I was born." He tells it as though he's heard the story many times. John imagines Sherlock's mother holding him when he was a child and telling him how extraordinary he'd been, even before he was an hour old. It makes a warm, yet bittersweet ball settle in his stomach.

"Why are you telling me this?" John asks, feeling as though he's missing a vital clue.

Sherlock says, "I've already had one miscarriage," and John realizes what he's trying to say.

"Potential for miscarriages isn't hereditary," John says, trying to be comforting. "There are no studies that have conclusively proven that chances of miscarriage increase with family history. It's more than likely your mother had some underlying condition that went undiagnosed. It was the eighties; Omegas were still having to fight for their rights, much less proper healthcare. There was no such thing as family planning back then."

"But the potential is still there," Sherlock says. He's quiet, then: "I don't want to go through that again, John. It was painful, not only physically, but…I had almost forgotten about it until my _twat_ of a brother had to open his fat mouth and remind me."

John doesn't know how to respond. It doesn't help that this conversation—none of the conversations they've been having the last few days—wasn't expected, and subsequently never planned for. Eventually, he says, "As soon as we know, I'll make you an appointment."

"Call Mycroft," Sherlock says, sounding pained. "As much as it…_really_ irks me to say it, he'll find someone good. I want the best."

Ordinarily, it would sound a bit pompous and selfish. But Sherlock is not only talking about himself. He's talking about their child, and his/her future health.

So John nods and says, "Me too," then, "I love you, you know. No matter what, I love you."

Sherlock turns over and lays atop John, cheek pressed against his chest. He doesn't say it, but the sentiment is there. It's loud and clear.

* * *

**Notes:** WHEEE LOOK AT ME IT'S THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING.

I figured I owe you guys some fic. And considering my beta just got back from vacation and has just now gotten to betaing Peril, and Unlocking Sherlock still has about four thousand words on this chapter, this was the only thing I had to offer. I hope it's satisfactory.

I was wary of the scene with Mrs. Hudson, but in the end decided to write it because, let's face it, we all know that woman has got to be keeping some cans of majorly potent whoop-ass somewhere in her pantry.

Thank you for reading!


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